


Someday Out Of The Blue

by karuvapatta



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Canon, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-16
Updated: 2011-11-16
Packaged: 2017-10-26 04:01:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,469
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/278469
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/karuvapatta/pseuds/karuvapatta
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The day Arthur is crowned, he names Merlin his Court Sorcerer. Merlin didn’t know that he knew. (For <a href="http://kinkme-merlin.livejournal.com/25900.html?thread=26098988#t26098988">this prompt</a> at kinkmeme.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Someday Out Of The Blue

**Author's Note:**

> Written before series 4 aired, so don't expect it to follow canon too closely. Or at all. Either way, I hope you'll enjoy! You can also read it on my LJ [here](http://karuvapatta.livejournal.com/703.html).

There’s a perfectly legitimate reason why Arthur wants to be crowned king in his armour. Seeing him armed, always ready to defend his people, is sure to make citizens of Camelot feel safer in this troubling times. Still, Merlin can’t help feeling cheated. He’s stuck polishing armour – beautifully made, he notices, but clearly meant for show and not for battle – on what is essentially the most important night of his life. And it’s all Arthur’s fault.

When he’s done, he collects all the pieces and carries them to Arthur’s room. Arthur himself isn’t there – he must be still arranging the details of the ceremony with Geoffrey and the council. Merlin leaves to overlook the preparations, and not, as the cook put it, to stick his nose in places it doesn’t belong.

The entire castle is buzzing with activity, kind of like a beehive after a long winter. By the looks of it, the feast will drag on well into the night, and judging by the amount of wine and ale, it’s not likely there’s going to be a single person left sober this evening. Clearly, if anyone wanted to attack Camelot, tomorrow would be the perfect day – everyone will be too hungover to care.

Merlin wanders to the main hall. The Round Table occupies the entire main section, and almost groans under the weight of food and decorations. Each seat has a little wooden plate, carved with the name of the knight to be seated there. Merlin reads them all. The knights closest to Arthur’s place are the ones he knows best; Sir Leon at Arthur’s left hand, with Gwaine beside him. Lancelot is at the second place at Arthur’s right side.

The chair between them is empty.

He’s a little bit surprised. It must have been left that way on purpose – he doesn’t think someone would neglect such an important place. Maybe it was meant to be a surprise then, and he wonders who’s going to be seated there. Gwen perhaps, and the thought makes him smile.

When he asks a passing maid, she just shrugs and carries on, replacing the candles so that each is fresh and new. Everyone is busy, so he leaves, not wanting to disturb them. It would be nice to have something to do, he thinks, here in the castle where he could talk and chatter and laugh with everybody else. Instead he needs to walk back to wait in Arthur’s empty chambers.

He leans against the window, watching the courtyard, and tries to think – about the future, and destiny, and about Albion, united. But his minds refuses to cooperate. Everything just seems so huge, so unbelievable. Before, he used to truly believe that when Arthur became king, things would be different. He knows that for sure, now, but different doesn’t always mean better. It’s not the goal they have all been working for – it’s merely the beginning of something new. And Merlin, despite his best efforts, is scared.

Work helps. He cleans the fireplace, although someone has already done that earlier, and restocks the logs. Then he lays out clothes for Arthur to change into, because while the armour is pretty impressive, it can’t be very comfortable. He polishes the buttons of Arthur’s favourite red jacket, his shoes, and the coronet he used to wear as a Crown Prince, even though it will be years since somebody’s going to need it again.

And then there’s Excalibur.

Arthur never leaves it alone; when it’s not buckled at his belt, Merlin has to watch over it. But now it’s right here, lying on the desk, the blade gleaming and razor-sharp.

Merlin picks it up gently. He’s never been good with swords – or any other weapons that he can’t wave around and use magic with, for that matter – but Excalibur has always felt familiar and natural in his hand. It is strangely warm, vibrating with energy, the golden patterns almost glowing; he wonders if anyone else ever noticed.

Arthur’s footsteps can be heard in the corridor, becoming steadily louder, and Merlin hastily puts the weapon away. He stands up straight, the picture of an obedient manservant, but isn’t much surprised when Arthur frowns at him.

‘You aren’t wearing that, are you?’ he asks.

Merlin looks down.

‘What’s wrong with my clothes?’ he says, puzzled. He made sure to wash and repair them beforehand.

‘Nothing, except they’re hideously ugly.’ Arthur slumps down onto his throne-like chair, grinning. ‘But don’t worry, I had the seamstresses prepare something more acceptable.’

Merlin has to fight back the urge to say something unpleasant.

‘I always dress like that,’ he says reproachfully.

‘Exactly. But you now have appearances to keep.’

‘I don’t see,’ says Merlin, ‘how cleaning your room when you’re king is going to be different than when you were a prince.’

‘I’d imagine it is a greater honour.’

‘Really? Then you should try it yourself,’ Merlin grumbles.

Arthur shoots him an eyebrow-arched look of haughty indignation.

‘I,’ he says pointedly, ‘am soon going to be the king. One would think you might learn some respect.’

‘Well, excuse me your soon-going-to-be majesty, but one would think you might learn how not to be a prat.’

‘Merlin. Shall I remind you that your place in this castle, specifically your place at the stocks, is now entirely for me to decide?’

‘How lucky I am, then, to have such a wise and benevolent king,’ Merlin says, deadpan. Arthur smirks and Merlin smiles at him, because despite everything, he really thinks he’s lucky.

For a moment they look at each other, and there’s something strange in Arthur’s face, some unknown quality. But then he clears his throat and stands up.

‘Enough chit-chat, Merlin, I have to get prepared.’

‘Yes, sire.’

The routine is pleasantly familiar, and Merlin thinks he could do it in his sleep. Arthur is rigid, a faraway look on his face, while Merlin smoothes and tightens and buckles, quickly and efficiently. His mind flashes to the first time they were doing this, both angry, Arthur glaring all the time and he himself confused and irritable. So much has changed; and yet again, so many things have stayed the same.

Soon after he finishes readying Arthur, there’s a polite knock at the door.

‘Enter,’ Arthur says.

A servant scurries in, carrying a basket of colourful fabric, and drops a respectful curtsey.

‘Sire,’ she says, leaves the basket and disappears again.

‘Ah, there they are. Official robes of the servant of Camelot,’ Arthur smirks, and Merlin stops dead in his tracks to pick them up.

‘I’m not wearing the hat,’ he says flatly, and sincerely hates the look on Arthur’s face.

‘I’m your king, Merlin, you’re wearing what I say you’re wearing. But not,’ he silences Merlin with a raised finger, ‘the hat. At least not this time.’

Merlin glares.

***

The robes are surprisingly nice. They fit very well, the fabric is soft and expensive-looking. There are breeches, a tunic and a long coat, all in black, blue and silver. Yet he feels like an idiot wearing them, and he must look a bit stupid, too, because people pause and stare when they see him.

‘I hate Arthur,’ he says matter-of-factly to Gwen, who’s looking even more lovely than usual in a yellow dress, with her hair done up. She flashes him a brilliant smile.

‘No, you don’t. And that’s King Arthur for you.’

‘Oh, stop it. He’s just as insufferable now as he was before.’

‘Sure,’ she doesn’t sound convinced, and carefully looks him over. ‘Where did you get these clothes?’

‘Arthur made me wear them. I hate them, too.’

‘No, they’re… nice,’ she says, and he doesn’t quite believe her.

Then they have to stop talking and focus on the ceremony, because there’s Arthur, approaching the throne, followed by his knights. Merlin knows them all very well, considers them good friends even, but in this moment they seem unfamiliar: sombre, otherworldly and magnificent.

He stays quiet, and can’t fight the smile of his face throughout it all. He barely pays attention to Geoffrey of Monmouth pronouncing Arthur the King and laying the crown on his head, because the way every living soul in the hall is looking at Arthur – with pride, love and hope – means so much more than crowns and titles ever will.

When Arthur stands to look at his people, there’s a sound of cheer and applause so thunderous Merlin is surprised the windows stay intact. Gwen is sobbing next to him, and he offers her a grin and pulls her into a hug.

Arthur makes a speech – written by Merlin the previous day, when Arthur was too nervous to pick up a quill, not that anybody needs to know that – and then there comes the part when knights and vassals can swear their fealty to the new King, each one announced by the herald.

Gwen, whose side is pressed to Merlin, his arm around her shoulders, gives a sound between a giggle and a sob.

‘What’s wrong?’ he asks.

‘Nothing’s wrong,’ she shakes her head. ‘It’s just everything is so—so…’

‘Huge,’ Merlin finishes helpfully, and she makes that strange sound again.

‘Yes. Yes, exactly that.’

He sees a shadow pass her face, and doesn’t have to wonder to hard about who she’s thinking about. He just hugs her a little tighter, for a tiny second, and knows she understands.

It gets repetitive after a while, not that Merlin is complaining, but he can’t help thinking that Arthur would give anything to be able to just sit down and have some wine. It’s already huge for them; he can’t imagine what it’s like for Arthur.

His concentration slips a little, lost in the cacophony of sounds and colours and the sheer number of people present. He’s therefore unsurprised when he hears his name. It could all be his imagination after all.

Gwen stills at his side, and the herald’s words finally register in Merlin’s brain.

‘Merlin, the Court Sorcerer.’

There’s a surreal moment of existential dread when every face in Camelot – those that know him and those that notice what everybody else is focusing on – turns towards him, expectant.

Merlin just stands there.

After a moment of silence, the herald clears his throat.

Merlin stands there.

Gwen breaks their half-embrace and pushes him forward, towards the throne, towards Arthur, who’s looking at him with a carefully blank expression. His feet move on their own accord, and he follows unthinkingly, kneels down at Arthur’s feet, kisses his extended hand.

The low murmur of voices grows steadily louder. Merlin stands up and joins the knights and vassals.

The crowd around him starts moving towards the Table, probably to begin feasting. Merlin wants to go, too, but his body refuses to obey.

Somebody’s hands push at his back, directing him towards the empty chair next to Arthur’s. He sits dumbly, along with all the knights, mind still completely blank.

‘Merlin,’ Arthur hisses, not dropping the smile. ‘Will you please calm down? I get nervous just by looking at you.’

‘I, er, what?’ Merlin finally finds his voice, which seems to have eloped to another kingdom along with his ability to think straight.

‘Merlin.’

‘I… you just made me a Court Sorcerer!’ He is surprised to hear his own voice, and he can hear the surprise in his own voice, and his head spins.

‘I was thinking about Court Jester, but you’re jokes aren’t even funny,’ Arthur tells him calmly, so calmly, in fact, that Merlin finally manages to gather his thoughts.

‘You know I have magic,’ he says after a moment, horrified.

‘I’m glad you’re aware of the meaning of the word “sorcerer”.’

Merlin pays him no mind.

‘You know about my magic,’ he repeats dumbly. ‘Oh God. I’m going to die.’

‘See that you don’t. That could really ruin the festival spirit,’ Arthur helps himself to the plentiful food, some other servant standing behind his chair on goblet-refilling duties. The knights are uncharacteristically quiet. Most of them watch Arthur. Some of them watch Merlin.

‘I, I. I don’t know anything anymore.’

Arthur raises and eyebrow.

‘That surprises you?’

Merlin hears the mocking tone, but doesn’t fully register it. He blinks, stares at Arthur, not really seeing anything else, even though the hall is noisy and packed with people. Arthur’s amused expression slowly falters, and he frowns.

‘Merlin. Relax. I’m not going to execute you after announcing you the Court Sorcerer,’ he says quietly, so that no-one else can hear.

‘You know,’ Merlin repeats, because the prospect of his imminent death is nothing new, he can handle it, but this little fact is still something he can’t wrap his mind around.

‘Yes. I’ve known for a while.’

‘And this doesn’t… bother you?’

Arthur sighs and takes a sip of his wine.

‘It does, a little, although probably not in the way you think. But now is not the time for that conversation.’

‘Why didn’t you tell me?’ Merlin asks hysterically.

‘No, Merlin, why didn’t _you_ tell _me_?’ For the first time Arthur actually sounds angry, and his eyes narrow. But then he calms down, even smiles.

‘Why at the feast, though?’ Merlin persists. ‘We could find somewhere more private.’

‘Honestly? Because I wanted to see the expression on your face. And I wanted to be sure you wouldn’t run away screaming.’

‘Right.’

Merlin stares down at his plate, and over the Round Table. Gwaine’s smile is friendly and mocking; Elyan is amused, Lancelot – sympathetic. Gwen looks a little troubled, but she beams at him nonetheless and shakes her head.

None of them are surprised.

‘I’m terrible at keeping secrets, aren’t I?’ he asks weakly.

‘Not really,’ Lancelot says. ‘The king only found out recently.’

‘And now I can’t wait to find out if you’re as terrible at magic as you’re at everything else,’ Arthur says.

Merlin opens his mouth, wanting to give Arthur a sharp retort – that he’s one of the most powerful sorcerers well, ever, that he’s defeated Nimueh, Cornelius Sigan, Morgana, that the Great Dragon has to obey him, that it’s his destiny to make sure Arthur becomes the greatest king in history – but stops.

Arthur may know. He doesn’t need to know everything.

‘I can’t wait to give you a demonstration, your majesty,’ he says instead, part mocking, part sincere.

‘Wise choice. A good king should be aware of all the resources at his disposal.’

‘Yes,’ Merlin says quietly. ‘He should.’

They catch each other’s gaze, smile – and it’s an endless moment, when everything seems possible, when all their dreams are suddenly within arm’s reach. He sees it all, clear as day – the greatest kingdom and the most beloved king. He can’t tell if it’s a prophecy or just a promise, and he honestly doesn’t care.

Destiny, Merlin decides then, is not a bad thing after all.


End file.
